A Tent For Two
by Otin Gocni
Summary: A continuum of BBC Sherlock. Sherlock escapes exile by being called upon to solve his most shocking murder case yet. There, he fight his own emotions & someone who would stop at nothing to fill the empty hearse. The case goes from bad to worse: John's gone for the birth of his child, Greg's silenced, Mycroft and Moriarty are running an illegal business-Sherlock is alone and broken.
1. Blurred Lines

Sherlock grinned as he got off the plane. John was still on the runway, _he_ didn't know.

"What the hell Sherlock?!"

Ok so maybe he did know.

"You knew this was going to happen," John was angry. Sherlock grinned; John was kind of hot when he got angry. Not that he would tell him of course, if it wasn't for Mary disrupting his plans.

"Hello Sherlock," Sherlock said mockingly "I've missed you ohh so very much" John rolled his eyes and Sherlock winked. The doctor cocked his head and shook it as he bit his lip.

"Glad to have you back, brother," Mycroft said regretfully.

Suddenly, without warning, as if Sherlock returning from the dead wasn't alarming enough, there was a loud explosion. The plane blew up huge orange flames and black smoke licked the sky. Time appeared to slow as Sherlock grabbed John and pulled him down into the hard tarmac. John clenched his eyes shut, trying not to bring back dark memories of Afghanistan. Mycroft opened up his black umbrella; he looked down to see his brother…. _And his 'lover'_ , he grimaced. He strolled away, the small debris burning holes in his umbrella.

"Get down! Everything's going to be alright," John clung to Sherlock, who held his head in his chest. Another explosion.

"Aaaghhh," Sherlock screamed in agony as a piece of shrapnel sunk deep into his lower back, shielding john's abdomen. Deperatly trying to get from under Sherlock, John put his Afghan memories aside as he fought to save Sherlock's life. He ripped off Sherlock's famous coat and applied pressure to the wound. His skin was paling and he struggled to keep his eyes open. "Can't breathe," Sherlock gasped.

"Umm" John weaved his fingers through his hair, Sherlock was going into shock- for the second time… this time it might not work out… no, he couldn't think of it. "Right, Sherlock I'm going to need you to breathe deeply, I know you can breathe or you wouldn't have been able to speak. Air passes through the lungs to the voice box, you know" John tore off Sherlock's shirt. "Come on stay with me!"

Another explosion ripped through the runway sending small shock waves to the victims on the ground, Johns ears rang as hard as the bells on his wedding day- except more high pitched and deafening. "Sherlock! Stay with me you arrogant bastard! You've already left me once, please spare me another funeral."

The detective's eyes began to close.

"Sherlock!" John bit his lip and tears pricked his eyes. "Sherlock," he whispered.

The hospital was blurry as Sherlock opened his eyes. His back hurt like hell and it was difficult to move being attached to so many wires. He realised he had been in this position before, only a few months back and instinctively reached for the morphine control. His eyes rested on a blurry figure sitting in a chair next to his bed. The man was asleep and looked so peaceful, but the lines on his face and the bags under his eyes said otherwise. He smiled, Sherlock knew that jumper from anywhere. John murmured in his sleep, Sherlock looked fondly at him, he was relived John was ok, even if he wasn't. The silence of sleep was broken; Mrs Hudson burst through the blind covered door carrying what looked like edible content.

"Oh, my God Sherlock! What in heaven's name have you got up to this time?!" She rushed over to the man's side, looked full of pity for the broken man and noticed his friend or _lover_ \- as she would much rather call him - who stirred quietly on his chair "Aww, poor thing's been here for days, hasn't left the hospital once; talk about dedication."

John's eyes battered open. He sighed and shook his head "Why did you do it Sherlock?" he said with a voice full of sorrow.

"What do you mean?" came a gruff reply of a man intent on burrowing away in his sheets.

"You didn't have to do it, you know,"

"I'm your," Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, "I'm your _friend_ ," there was a slight twang inside his chest. "You're my best friend… my only friend."

"You could have died!"

"Oh for heaven's sake here you go again," Sherlock sank back into his pillow

"Why would you-"

"I-I'm going to go," said Mrs Hudson quietly, sensing the tension "I better get you a nurse now you're awake. Boys please don't fight. John don't kill him now he's just woken up, that would be a waste of good tax payer's money."

"A waste of- a bloody big waste of tax payer's money, because that's what matters!" Sherlock's voice rose.

"Sherlock," John tried.

"Oh go to hell!" shouted Sherlock and pulled up the sheets around him, so he wouldn't have to face the one he cared so much about, in such an angry manner.

"Well the blueberry muffins are on the side…" the woman called, "I'm not staying for a domestic."

"We are not a couple!" Shouted John. Mrs Hudson pursed her lips, offended, and slammed the door as she left.

Not a couple. Sherlock's heart sank lower than titanic in his gut; he couldn't even look at him.

"I'm sorry Sherlock; I'm just a bit stressed, with the baby coming and all,"

"Of course, the baby," Sherlock spat.

"Look," John took his hand, "I am really grateful for what you did, I really am… I just don't like seeing you hurt," Sherlock burrowed his face into the pillow, when he didn't reply, regretfully, John left.

* * *

The rhythmic pounding came from inside Mycroft's office. _At it again_ Gregory Lestrade thought as he walked past the fish tank in the hall and snuck into Mycroft's office. His running machine was facing his desk and he was listening to music - so he wouldn't hear a thing.

"BOO!" Greg shouted, Mycroft jumped, span round and was spat off the running machine. He swore. "Hahaha! Doing a little shaping up are we?" Greg said teasingly, helping him up off the floor.

"Well I was, until you rudely interrupted me," he smiled a rare smile. Greg wrapped his arms around him.

"Oooo sweaty man, I like," he winked mockingly and they kissed.

"So," Mycroft said, tracing around Greg's neck with his finger. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Saturday,"

"So?" He smiled seductively.

"It's my day off, more to the point - why do I have to drive all across town so I can find my work-obsessed fiancée doing the same thing he could be doing at home?"

"I do wish you'd stop complaining, the whole reason why I'm working-out is for you."

"Tell me again, when I can next see this well - chiselled body of yours,"

"You just have to ask," Mycroft whispered, "So, what _did_ you need me for?"

"I think you know the answer to that," he walked over to the door, shutting it quietly.

"Hello sleepy head," Mycroft kissed Greg. They were on an old fashioned settee, still in the office. It was late-afternoon and the orange rays warmed Lestrade's coat - the only thing coving them.

"What time is it?" Greg said rolling on top of Mycroft, who sighed with pleasure. Greg sat up and slowly leaned across to kiss Mycroft again, their bodies rubbing together as he did so.

"I'm never… going to get… any work…huhh… done," shuddered Mycroft in between a wet kiss. Greg slowly worked his hand lower and Mycroft closed his eyes and groaned.

"Well after working me, I'll return the favour. Screw work when you can screw me." Greg breathed in his lover's sent. They squeezed and pulled together as if their bodies were as one.

Suddenly the sound of footsteps coming from the corridor broke them apart. Two, maybe three people. Lestrade grabbed his coat quickly pulling it on, whilst Mycroft didn't bother with pants and quickly buttoned his shirt. There was a knock.

"Just a minute," Mycroft called, but the person entered anyway. A man in a grey tailored suit stood before the couple, his hair slicked back as glossy as the menacing smile that plagued his eyes.

"Miss me?"


	2. Bloody Soup

"Your fish tank out there really does need cleaning," Moriarty said in his dark Irish slur. Behind him were two body guards holding assault rifles. "All the goldfish are going to die of algae poisoning…" he walked around picking up odd little items and assessing their value.

"What the fucking hell is a psychopath doing here?!"

"Not now Greg," Mycroft said silencing him with a raised hand. If looks could kill Gregory Lestrade would have killed everyone in England.

"Oo having a little fun are we?" Moriarty looked at the wet patch on the lounge. He smiled wickedly and peered at the clothes on the floor. "Yes, yes you were!" He almost clapped.

"What do you want?" snarled Greg,

"I believe we have some unfinished business to take care of." Moriarty provocatively made his way towards Lestrade.

"Greg, please... Leave us," Mycroft looked at the floor as he gestured to the door.

"What?! You can't be serious?!"

"Lestrade, _please_ leave us," Mycroft couldn't look him in the eye. Moriarty giggled and Greg stormed out angrily.

It was still and quiet inside 221B Bakers street, the only sound coming from Sherlock slurping his tomato soup.

"Do you want me to help you-"

"I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped at John. They sat around a small cleared patch on the table in the kitchen. Sherlock shook as he slowly lifted the soup spoon to his parted lips.

"Here, let me" said John reaching out to take the spoon.

"I said I'm fine!" He banged his fist on the table knocking over the piping hot soup bowl. "Aaagh! Bloody soup!"

"Look, let's get you cleaned up... When was the last time you had a bath anyway?"

"I can do it by myself!" Sherlock trudged away trundling his drip behind him. John sighed and shook his head, this was the second time now Sherlock walked out of hospital and it wasn't doing him any favours.

Silence.

"John... About... That help?" Sherlock said embarrassed.

John rolled his eyes and smiled. Sherlock stared at the wall whilst John undressed him out of his hospital robes. The bath was hot and it steamed the mirror and condensed on Sherlock's body. "Tell no one of this," Sherlock said as he got into the bath.

"Don't worry your secret's safe with me"

"Aaaahh!" Sherlock cried out in pain. He gritted his teeth. John leaned over and keeled at the baths side,

"I'm here," he said letting Sherlock's head rest on his chest..." Sherlock began, "I never slept with... Her... you know... Janine" There was a pause.

"I know, if you had I doubt she would have stayed," said John mockingly.

Sherlock smiled a brief smile before pain ripped through him again. "Shhsh, its ok, I'll get the ibuprofen if you want,"

"All I want is you," Sherlock muttered quietly.

"What?" Said John stroking his head. "I was saving myself for someone,"

"Well that's nice,"

Sherlock looked into Johns eyes.

"That someone...was yo-"

There was a knock at the door.

"I'm coming!" John yelled, getting up and leaving Sherlock, who was trying to stifle a tear.

Greg stormed in, red faced.

"Whoa, can't say I was expecting you" John stepped back and let Lestrade pace around the room.

"How can we help you?" Asked John after a while.

"He's back."

"Who?"

"Moriarty,"

"I thought... I thought that was just a hoax," said John looking at a newspaper that lay on the table which read _'Moriarty, back from the morgue'_

"Apparently not, considering I just spoke to him,"

"Aaah Sherlock there you are," Greg started "we're in deep shit, Moriarty's back,"

Sherlock leant against the wall his dark purple shirt framed him perfectly; it melted into his black sharp cut trousers. His dark eyes stood out against his pale face and his dark brown hair fell in sweet curls, licking at his neck.

John put his hands on his hips and muttered, "so he can get dressed himself.

Greg looked at him suspiciously but Sherlock ignored them.

"What did he want?" Sherlock said eventually.

"Well I- I heard that-"

"Spit it out!"

"Umm, it's quite... Umm personal,"

"We're all... friends here," Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John, who rolled his eyes.

"Moriarty..."

Sherlock sighed and struck open a newspaper.

"Moriarty and your brother are... Plotting your murder,"

Sherlock snapped the newspaper shut and leaned forwards in his chair. "Tell me- EVERYTHING"

* * *

"Such a shame isn't it?" Moriarty clicked through the songs on his iPod, "blood against blood,"

"I think he knows," replied Mycroft, pouring himself a glass of port from the tumbler. "I think he knows what we've been doing – or at least expects something."

"So, you would go out of your way to kill him? Huh," The psychopath smirked, "your own brother – for a moment I thought you couldn't do it. But then I remembered, you're English. That…er plan of yours – the plane – boom," he gestured with his hands. "Your idea?"

"Sadly not, the government lost a jet, civil servants were killed and we lost a very respectable young pilot – the one who knows how to keep secrets."

"Shame, we wouldn't want anyone finding out about... Us," Moriarty started unbuttoning Mycroft's shirt.

"He came close to it the other day- started questioning me about goldfish,"

"Goldfish?"

"Innuendo," he said leaning closer to Moriarty, their noses almost touching.

"How's dating Greg working out for you?" Moriarty said defensively.

"You know I'm only doing that to draw attention away from you."

"Yes! But I want us to be exclusive!" Moriarty whined, pouting.

"You want the world to know that a high thought of detective, who is responsible for this country's safety is dating the most wanted man in Europe?!"

"Can't MI5 take care of that...? It'll be you me against the world. I'd be you king" Moriarty winked.

"You don't bow down to anyone anyway," Holmes sighed

"Oh is that so?" Mycroft glared, but then rolled his eyes as Moriarty undid his zip and sucked on something not considered to be a micro-penis.


	3. Exiled to Cornwall

"Sherlock! He's lying!" John hissed to the detective in the kitchen, he looked over to where Lastrade was sipping coffee in the living room, he certainly looked genuine. "For god's sake! Why the hell would your brother want you dead?!"

"I don't think so..."

"Oh so you have a lie detector stashed in that..." John gestured to his head "...massive brain of yours?"

"No, I can tell by; the red of his face, out of breath, and sweating, means he has rushed to get here. The shaking of his arms and stuttering can be the cause of anxiety. When he got in he was putting away his wallet- meaning he got a cab- why would he get a taxi when he has a car? Mustn't have wanted to have been followed, even though, strictly speaking you can follow any means of transport anywhere if you get its licence plate or number. His shirt buttons are out of place by one and he hasn't bothered to tuck it in, knowing Greg that must mean he was in a hurry…Oh and by the love bite on his neck, it seems he was with my brother."

"You don't know that for sure!"

"Well who else would he have been with?"

"Well, maybe his... GIRLFRIEND,"

"You know nothing, John Watson,"

John rolled his eyes.

"He's been dating my brother for over 5 months now, or so we think I thought you would have noticed from the way they talk to each other, I overheard a conversation between them when I was picking up the file about the man that killed people to make intestine soup and I think they're secretly engaged… "

"Wait what? You mean to say, Lestrade is... _Gay_?"

"Sorry did I stutter? A goldfish, yes"

"A what?"

Sherlock ignored him and wandered over to Greg who had turned on the T.V. He turned it off clasped his hands enthusiastically.

"So we have established that you are telling the truth,"

"You didn't believe me?" Gegory looked more shocked than when he had found out that Mycroft was planning his brother's murder.

"-now, I need you to get more info for me,"

"You're going to take on your own case?" Lestrade said raising his eyebrows.

"So it seems,"

"The game is on!" John came in carrying two cups of tea.

Sherlock looked at him inquisitively. "That's my line," he murmured.

"I'm back!" Greg entered carrying groceries, "pasta anyone?"

Sherlock was sitting crossed legged looking at the wall which was now covered in charts, pictures and little bits of red wool. If Moriarty was to attack, he wanted to have a head start.

"So who's cooking?" John said peering into the bags. No one answered. "I guess that would be me then," and took the bags into the kitchen.

"Are you any closer to figuring out what his next move is?" Greg asked Sherlock, who was leaning his head on his hands- steeple position.

"No," Sherlock didn't look at him.

"Okay then... Better leave you to it," said Lestrade sensing hostility. Sherlock glared at him as Greg slapped him on the back.

"What's this?" John called from the kitchen.

"Oh that," Lestrade entered, "that's your new case, I figured that with all recent findings you'd be better getting out of town for a bit. This is the one that got you let off from exile." He clapped the detective on his back.

"7 murders, targeted on campers in the area, most belongings stolen...It's in _Cornwall_!"

"Yes, you will stay with my good friend Jolene."

"Not doing it."

"Why? You love murder games – some of these deaths seem pretty gruesome, your kinda thing."

"What about Mary?" John called.

"Who?" Greg asked, un-phased.

"My WIFE, you were at our WEDDING!"

"Ohhh her... What about her?" Greg seemed oblivious.

"She's 8 months pregnant!"

Greg shrugged "can you just put her in hospital early?"

"No! And I don't know how long this case is going to last! I'm not missing the birth of my baby!"

"I thought Sherlock was your baby," Greg muttered sneakily, smiling. "Anyway I've booked you rail tickets, your train leaves tonight,"

"What about Moriarty?" Sherlock appeared by the kitchen entrance, a cold expression pinned on his face.

"I'll take care of him," Greg said determinedly, his phone buzzed in his pocket, "sorry I have to take this," he walked out. Sherlock's attention drifted to John who was heating up water. He looked kind of sexy in an apron, Sherlock scolded himself for smiling, this battle of his wasn't going to win by eyeing up ex marines.


	4. Gunnislake?

John and Sherlock sat opposite each other on the train. A few people sat across from them, late night travellers with rucksacks, brief and suitcases. Sherlock rested his arm on the window and looked out-even though there was nothing to see as it was dark out. He could feel John's fuming gaze on him.

"Oh grow up-"

"-My child, Sherlock! I'm missing the birth of my _child_!" People in the carriage tittered, annoyed at the sudden outburst.

"I-I'm sorry, never thought that your son's birth was more important than my life! You never know, I might get shot right now, might be there in time for the bloody birthing!"

"It's not like that!"

"Then what is it like?" Sherlock was nearly in tears.

John sat there shocked; Sherlock was trying to hide his face with his hands a silent tear rolled down his cheek in the reflection on the window. "I don't know," John sighed. "I want to be there for you and the baby... You don't understand."

"Just because I'm Sherlock! The machine, I don't have feelings... I'm a sociopath... A psychopath... Someone who can never love or be loved."

"That's not true! Your parents love you, Mrs Hudson...me,"

"Well you have a funny way it showing it," Sherlock uttered and got up to move seats.

The train slowed and stopped at a station. A family came on with a bawling baby. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The train started away again, Sherlock watching the family in the reflection on the window. "S'cuse me," he said pushing past the family. A man dressed in a chequered shirt sat down in the seat across from Sherlock. There were other places to sit... No one would want to sit next to what seemed like the noisiest family in England...Not this late at night... His hat cast a shadow over his eyes, covering his intentions.

"John, I-I need you to come with me..."

"What now, Sherlock?"

"Believe me this is urgent," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"If it's the toilet you need, you managed to get dressed by yourself so it can't be that hard to pull a zip," John took no notice and picked up his book.

"John!" He hissed. The man leaned against his window. Sherlock could tell he was also looking at the reflection as well.

"Fine! Fine," John held his hands up, "I'll come, this better be good," he muttered.

Sherlock grabbed John and his suitcase. "Alright! You should have gone before we left,"

They passed the next carriage before finding the toilet. Sherlock pressed the close button.

"I don't need the toilet!"

"Then why are we here? - is that my suitcase?"

"Yes, anyway… his jeans,"

"His what?!"

"They're too tight,"

"Pardon?"

"They're _too tight_ ,"

"Yes, we've established that," John said putting his hands on his hips.

"Pff," Sherlock paced the toilet, running his fingers through his hair.

"You should get that cut you know," John folded his arms.

"We didn't come here, to discuss my hair!"

"Then what?"

Sherlock stopped pacing.

"We're here to discuss the man with the knife in the pockets of his jeans!"

"Well you could have told me!"

"I did! Agggh! He has a gun too!"

"And you found this out how?"

"By the bulge under his shirt," Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his chin on his hands.

"C-could just be a ...tumour?" John suggested.

Sherlock frowned " _a tumour_?!"

John shrugged, "A very...very large tumour, look, I think you're just being paranoid."

"We need to get off this train,"

Footsteps.

No one breathed. There was a knock.

"Hello?" John called out. No answer came. "Perhaps someone just walked past and accidentally knocked?"

"Accidentally knocked?!" he hissed.

"Right, I'm going to open the door and see,"

"I'll go first,"

"I was in the army," John pushed is way forward.

The door opened, revealing a little boy, "I told you there were two people in there mummy!" His mother came up behind him. She sucked in her cheeks.

"Are you two finished?" the mother said with slight disgust.

"Yes," Sherlock strode down the carriage to a door.

"We're not- you know, umm... He's ... Been in an accident," John stammered. "And..." She nodded, slightly disapprovingly. "Yeah I'll just... Go..." John went bright pink as he made his way down the carriage, people looking at him as he did so.

"We could have got the sleeper train you know."

Sherlock ignored him.

"We'll get off here," Sherlock looked out at the window and lights started to appear.

"Gunnislake?"

"We'll get a taxi, it's too dangerous for public transport."

"Tell that to the 'study in pink' victims,"

* * *

Gregory Lestrade walked drearily into Scotland Yard. It was a Monday, and spitting. He opened the glass doors and peered at his watch, 20 minutes late... Hopefully no one would notice.

"You're late!" Anderson strode over, arms crossed.

"Great..." Greg said under his breath.

Two armed guards strode past.

"Why are they...?" Greg peered after them.

"You've got some catching up to do, like suck up to your new boss...I know you like sucking."

" _YOU'RE_ my new boss?!" Greg's jaw dropped.

"No," Anderson sighed, "but he wants to meet you," Greg followed Anderson up a flight of stairs, people rushing by, looking lost and confused. Paper lay sprawled in the main office room and phones rang in all directions. They stopped outside a room made from opaque glass, the silhouettes from behind the glass were obscured.

"Gregory Lestrade here,"

Anderson shut the door behind him. Greg didn't move, he was to stun and petrified. "How..." he breathed.

The Irish accent cut through him like a knife. "Friends in high places _, ah ah ah ah staying alllllivve_ ," he dropped the music player.

Mycroft appeared from the shadows in the corner of the room. He placed a hand on Moriarty's shoulder. "Moriarty is your boss now," he carried on when Greg didn't reply "with him on our side, we are bound to solve more cases than Sherlock in his lifetime! Takes one to know one, we've already caught two major activists and are hunting down a terrorist connected with nine-eleven," Mycroft beamed.

Greg gave a false smile "guess you won't be needing me then," he got up and left, Moriarty sniggering at him.


	5. Swords in the morning

Sherlock stood on a hill facing the house.

"So this is where Jolene lives?" John came up behind him.

"Yup," he walked down the hill, hands in his pockets. The house let off a faint glow. Storm clouds rolled in. Sherlock rapped on the door, a shadow moved behind it.

A warm welcoming face opened the door, Jolene had large cheeks and a button nose, she wore an apron imprinted with daisies and attacked Sherlock with a large hug.

Welcome, welcome," she ushered them inside. "I was expecting you earlier; Greg was going to call if there were any delays."

"We had some transport difficulties," John said peering at the porcelain plate cat paintings that hung on the wall. An old kettle steamed over an Agra.

"Ohh that's a shame, trains all messed up?"

"Um... Yeah..." John sat down on an old armchair.

"Oo how silly of me! Let me tell you where that goes," she said looking at Sherlock's suitcase. "Up the stairs, second on the left," she handed John his tea. "I made up the double bed, I hope that's alright!" She called after Sherlock.

"Sorry what?!" John spluttered into his tea.

Sherlock found the room; it was quite big, but a bit plain! There was a double bed leaning against one wall with a floral covering. The wooden floorboards led into a narrow en-suite which like the room had a field facing window. He sighed, he was going to have to share a bed with John, and there was no way he was going to top and tail! He put the suitcases down; he could hear Jolene and John talking downstairs. What a great opportunity to have a little snoop. He clasped his hands together and peered out into the corridor. At the end there was a frilly bathroom with posh soap and a laced curtain. Not very interesting, he frowned disappointed- you could tell a lot about someone from their bathroom- John was always very orderly, probably from all the years spent in the army. The other two rooms were storage rooms filled with boxes...bored now... The last room was the one opposite the guest room. It was hers obviously... He pushed the door ajar... The room was painted white and the bed had satin sheets... Opposite the bed was a vanity covered in odd trinkets and precious gems, expensive perfumes and lavish make up. He cocked his head to one side...

"Sherlock!" Jolene called "your tea's getting cold!"

Sherlock spat into the sink.

* * *

"Do you know any more about these murders?" John said calling from the double bed, he was reading the file.

"No more than you," Sherlock said wiping his face with his towel he climbed into bed and turned off the bedside light. "John?" He said eventually. The dark silence had not allowed his mind to rest and thoughts had turned to nightmares as he imagined John sitting in apartment 221B with a child on his lap. At first he thought it was his own, the likeliness in his eyes. The thirst for knowledge he had had when he was that age. But then a shadow appeared from the corner of the room. It glided confidently and stood behind John, its hands resting on the top of his chair. Mrs Hudson entered the room and made a comment of how it's 'always so dark in here,' and something to do with the price of electricity these days. There was a horrible moment when she pulled back the curtains and the face of the shadow was revealed. Mary's eyes were fixed on him as if to see who he truly was – who he truly loved. She then spoke, the tone of her voice making him quiver unpleasantly. "Look at him," she said, "isn't he adorable?" Sherlock couldn't tell if she was talking about the boy or John. He wished his partner wouldn't notice the sweat that plastered his body as he lay there in terror- finally knowing what he feared most. He must never, ever lose John again.

"Yeah," John rolled over.

"What if you never met Mary?"

"Uhh... I-I don't know,"

Sherlock looked him deep in the eyes.

"I suppose... I...," John stuttered, he smiled and looked to the ceiling "I'd... Just have stayed..." He closed his eye. Sherlock moved over and rested his head on John's shoulder before they both drifted off to sleep...

John was woken up by bright morning light coming in through the window. He sighed and tried to sit up, but felt a heavy weight on his shoulders... Sherlock. He smiled. He looked almost happy, his face was relaxed and he breathed deeply onto John's neck, who had to creep out of bed to have a shower.

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled a non-creepy smile. "Sherlock! What the hell?!" he yelled as the outline of a man appeared in the foggy bathroom mirror.

"I must have left my... Umm... Hairbrush in here...,"

"You don't brush your hair," John stared angrily through the steam.

"I do!" Sherlock protested.

John leaned against the bathroom tiles, "you do realise...," he said with a grin on his face.

"Realised what?" Sherlock span around with his arms in the air. "Nothing new here,"

"Alright then, I guess you haven't noticed your swords come out to say hello." John looked away, biting down his lip to stop himself from laughing.

Sherlock followed his gaze. "Oh," he suddenly found his reflection in the mirror very interesting. "Errr, bit hot in here." He said moving awkwardly, trying to avoid eye contact.

"Yes," John folded his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm just... Going to go then..." Sherlock mumbled and went back to the bedroom. John smiled.


	6. Dead Weight

"So this is the campsite?" John said dismissively. Sherlock didn't say anything as he walked towards the bright yellow police tape. They were a few fields across from Jolene's house and you could see the steam from the vent pipe floating in puffs towards the ever changing sky.

"Murder, forensics says they were strangled... Poor couple," the officer let them through. "We found them a few days ago," he looked at Sherlock, "we left the scene as it was when we heard you were coming," he grinned excitedly, "best detective ever!" He trailed off when he realised Sherlock was ignoring him.

Sherlock grunted and inspected the bodies lying next to each other in the tent.

"Echh," John squeezed his eyes shut. "That's horrible!" he said wafting the air around him. Sherlock ignored him. "What's up with you?" John kneeled beside him.

"Nothing... Just figuring out how this couple DIED," he looked coldly at John.

"What is your problem?" John put his hands on his hips.

"Look, I'm sorry... Just a bit... Agitated."

"Look if this is about earlier, I'm sorry for laughin-"

"-The pupils."

"What,"

"They're dilated,"

"Drugs?"

"Possibly, more likely to be chloroform,"

John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

"It's Gregory,"

"Gregory?" Sherlock got out his magnifying glass, inspecting the bodies.

"Lestrade," he rolled his eyes, "you've known him for ages,"

"Oh that one,"

John sighed and took the call.

Greg was standing outside Scotland Yard. "Took you a long time to answer! Does Sherlock even look at his phone?"

"Sherlock?" John turned to Sherlock, "you do realise Greg has been trying to call you- for over half an hour,"

"Don't care," Sherlock carried on looking for hairs.

Greg looked up to the rainy sky. "Look just... Put me on speaker phone, you both need to hear this,"

"What?!" John almost shouted down the phone. Sherlock grabbed the phone from him.

"How did he get in charge?"

"Mycroft,"

"What?"

"He...h-he was ... Cheating on me..."

"With? Moriarty?!"

"Yes look I don't-"

"A psychopathic terrorist?!"

"Can we not-,"

"Oo, Lestrade," he sucked in a breath, "you're losing your touch!"

"Give me that!" John took hold of the phone and scolded Sherlock, "that was totally unnecessary!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Says the person who married a crazy agent that tried to kill me!"

"Sorry what was that?" John said patronisingly.

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered.

"Lestrade, sorry about that. He seems to be a bit moody this morning. I was under the impression that men didn't have oestrogen, I guess I was wrong."

"I can hear you!" Sherlock called from inside the tent.

"I'm going to see if I can dig up any dirt," Greg said, the doors of the building opened. Mycroft came out, behind him two armed guards and three agents. "I have to go," Greg disconnected.

"We need to talk," Mycroft strode up to Greg.

"Thought you'd never ask," Greg put on a false smile.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft didn't even look him in the eye.

"Mycroft, sorry isn't going to cut it! Cavorting with the enemy! He's a psychopath!"

"I don't expect you to understand," a van pulled up.

"No! Of course I don't understand! It's...it's... _Bloody Moriarty_!" Shock and sadness crept over Greg as Mycroft stood there, his face as unchanging as marble and as cold as Moriarty's soul.

"I'm sorry," the guards stepped forward and took Greg by the shoulders. "What?!" Greg tried to resist, an agent snatched his mobile and the other opened the van doors.

"It's for you own good," Mycroft said quietly before turning and walking slowly away,

"Bastard!" Greg shouted after him.

He wrestled against the men, regretting that he never took Mycroft's 'getting fit' advise seriously.

Moriarty parted the blinds from his office. All was going smoothly. He smiled as Greg was shut up in the van and it pulled away. All was going to plan. All would be his soon, and all his enemies would fall.

"He hung up on me," John shoved his phone into his pocket.

"Found something." Sherlock exited the tent. "Take a look,"

John entered, even though it was a cloudy day, the tent had managed to heat up and the bodies smelled repulsive.

"What? I don't see anything unusual..."

"Oh dear not even sarcasm, this is a new low," Sherlock said smugly.

"Look, you didn't drag me in here to mock me. Just tell me then..."

"Oh it must be so annoying being you," Sherlock smiled "can't see the evidence staring you in the face,"

John sucked in his cheeks.

"What then?"

"The equipment, it's all new. New shoes new coats, sleeping bags. The people here aren't used to camping...you can tell manicured nails, the hair gel in his hair... All _scream_ domestic," John noticed a new light in his eyes, as if his pain and sorrow had been forgotten and his mind worked harder to distract him from the fact – the evidence of his love was staring him in _his_ face. "Now that just leaves the tent," he started to walk around, John stood there hands on hips.

"These people were strangled. Who has time to strangle two people without the other attacking the murderer _and_ they were still half awake when the chloroform was breathed in? They would have struggled...so instead they used gas..."

"Gas?" John looked unconvinced.

"This tent is new, however..." He reached to one corner, "someone's cut this rather unnoticeable hole, probably while the victims were asleep,"

John peered to a hole that looked like it had been punctured.

"How do you know it wasn't there before... When they were putting up the tent perhaps?"

"I don't... but I suspect that they suffered carbon monoxide poisoning. This tent isn't completely sealed so it would have only partly killed them..."

"Forensics here!" An officer called inside the tent. "Come to take the bodies, if you're finished with them,"

"Who found them?" John asked the officer. Sherlock had wandered off.

"The site owner, a farmer, he's letting sites on the field for the spring. I can get one of my colleagues to take you if you want."

"Yes, that would be helpful..." John looked around, "Sherlock?!" He sighed; he was just like a child.

* * *

James Moriarty sat excitedly on his desk waiting for Mycroft. He clapped his hands like a child.

"Bravo! I didn't think you'd have it in you!"

"Well, what can I say...he ...he was dead...weight," Mycroft managed to force a smile. Moriarty beamed.

"Aahh I do love it when a plan comes together," he walked over to Mycroft and fondled with his tie.

"I'm not," Mycroft said "in the mood,"

Moriarty frowned melodramatically. "Perhaps I can get you in the mood."

Mycroft pushed him away and headed for the door "You forced me to do something I wouldn't have dreamt of," he said firmly, "now the one thing good in my life is gone, I have nothing to lose," He puffed out his chest and slammed the door.


	7. Breath of a Stranger

"You do realise the government brought me back to sort out Moriarty… not to solve a case in Cornwall." Sherlock uttered as he lay next to John in Jolene's spare room.

"Yeah… I guess I thought it a little weird," John breathed. He was not in the mood for talking and just wanted sleep. Mary hadn't called him since he had spontaneously gone to Cornwall with a sociopathic previously exiled detective and chosen him over the birth of his own son. They had a fight about it as he was packing and it had tormented his nights like thoughts of him tormented Sherlock. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to tease him about domestics with Mary, and lecture him on how he 'should've been married to your work, not to a human'.

"A bit _weird_?" came Sherlock's reply, "it's an insult in the name of my intelligence. The fact my brother has something to do with Moriarty unhinges me, but doesn't surprise me. Why else would he want the government thinking I'm getting rid of the new boss and actually have me walk around in wellies with a constant sore nose?"

"I don't know Sherlock; I think I'm past worrying about that. I'm glad you're back though,"

"Really? It seems half the time you don't want to be near me and would much rather spend your days in Mary's boring company."

"It's not boring! We get up to… all sorts of stuff."

"What does she give you that I can't?"

There was a long pause and for a moment Sherlock thought John hadn't heard, but then he said, "Are you… saying what I think you're saying? Sherlock?"

"No, never mind… it was nothing," Sherlock turned on his side, facing away from John and hogged all the sheets.

"…If you say so," John looked at his friend uncertainly and decided it was better not to press the matter further.

* * *

He realized his hands were numb when the sensation of pins and needles had disappeared. He tried to open his eyes, but his vision was disrupted by a strip of cloth. The same restraint was used for a gag in his mouth and used to bind him to a chair. _Breathe_ , he thought. Mycroft would come for him. Mycroft would find him. Mycroft _loved_ him... Mycroft loved that psychopathic killer!

"Aagh," Greg called out 'h-heeef ee,"

There was no answer and his chest rose and fell with every short and quickening breath. Panic clenched his gut and adrenaline rushed through his veins. He started, very slowly at first, to shake. Then in realizing he was doing so, started to shake even more. And he yelled and called out, though it sounded more like muffled grunting seeing as his mouth was covered'

"Heeeep," he screamed in frustration and started to bang the chair up and down on the floor.

Then a door opened.

"So you've woken up?" came a soft voice from that direction, "About time too - you nearly missed your dinner," the voice had an Eastern European accent and an air about it that was calming and strangely nostalgic "well…" he continued, "the boss said that you might not be hungry straight away and to treat and to treat you how I treat the richest of my clients,"

The person walked over to where Greg sat. The prisoner leaped back in his chair, scraping it against the floor, and protested violently that he wanted nothing to do with this foreigner. However, the person, still un-phased by Greg's protests, sat down on his lap and stroked the officer's face gently, down to his jaw bone.

To his surprise, Greg subsided almost at once and let the stranger unbutton his collar.

"Oo," The person exclaimed "I didn't realize how dirty you are, you must have put up quite a fight... There's a lot of blood here. I'll just fetch some water."

Greg heard the person leave, shutting the door behind him.

 _But he didn't lock it,_ he thought eagerly. For what seemed like an age Greg pulled at his ties and tried to shake them loose or cut the gag with his teeth and to his horror the man entered again carrying something sloshing with, what he assumed was, warm water. The Person straddled Greg slowly and began to dab at the blood that had congealed around his neck.

"We're going to have to take this off," whispered the person, his voice as sweet and smooth as honey.

Greg had calmed down more as he realized his death wasn't imminent and was relived to find some haven in his life which was so confusing and distressing and had managed to fall to pieces in with the words "please leave," worsened by "new boss".

Slowly, his shirt was unbuttoned and he could feel the man's tender breath on his skin. He realized that the person on top of him wasn't wearing a shirt either, as when The person leaned across, to pull away the shirt at the back that had caught in the bonding, their naked chests touched – which somehow gave him comfort.

With the person's free hand, he cradled the exhausted Lestrade's head as if nursing a newborn babe. Then he reached into a bucket and lightly rinsed a sponge, the water droplets slowly dripping into the water. The sponge wasn't rinsed out enough and a lot of the water had managed to drip its way down onto the front of Gregory's trousers. He could feel their watery fingers caress his skin, and he started to forget his current situation.

The breath of the stranger on him made him feel colder and tiny little goose bumps sprung up. Though, where the water had dripped on his trousers was warm. The damp sensation shot through him and he felt a rousing underneath. He murmured softly, hoping the giver wouldn't hear.

"That's no good, you can't sit in wet clothes, you'll catch a chill." And with delicate fingers he undid the belt and slid off the trousers, tracing Greg's skin with his fingers as he went. There was no more hiding his boy's delight now as Greg was stripped to his underwear.

"Oh," the voice said, "it appears that you like me,"

Greg couldn't see it, but the person gave a delightful smile and straddled the Inspector once more. The person moved his buttocks lightly in a circular motion on Greg's lengthening pants. He put his arms around Greg's neck and used the sides of the chair as a pivot to move his body up and down on Greg. Lestrade gave out a sigh and his manhood had grown to its usual aroused length. Greg felt the delicate fingers glide up and down his back and finally reach down to take off his boxers.

"You'll have your dinner later," the voice whispered in his ear, so close his nose made contact with his ear. "But I want mine now."

The stranger playfully bit Greg's lower ear and descended, kissing him, down Greg's anatomy. When he got to Greg's swollen penis he went underneath it, to where his balls were splayed out in seduction, and licked them. Greg groaned and wished the gag wasn't on so he could call out, this time not in fear but in passion. The man's tongue licked all up the underneath to the top of his penis. And then it started. Greg couldn't help himself but cum in large sensual explosions that he had never seemed to experience with Mycroft - or any other lover for that matter. He arched his back and relaxed it again with each moment of intense pleasure, and felt the beautiful white stuff squirt out into the stranger's deliciously moist mouth.


	8. A New Shade of Black

"The post-mortem examination was just what I expected," Sherlock sat next to Jolene's Arger, the only think keeping them from the chilly morning outside. John came and sat down next to him with a steaming cup of tea. "Cutting out the sugar?" Sherlock observed.

"Especially when I am around you. You were saying?"

"It's just what I expected," he repeated,

"… Oh please do enlighten me,"

Sherlock sighed, but was pleased to have John's full attention. It pleased _him_ that things were slowly going back to the way they were.

"The campers died of half poisoning, half suffocation. They showed no signs of struggle, because they were paralyzed."

"Oh my…" John rested his head on his hand. He knew what it was like to be emotionally trapped – but physically – the thought filled his gut with dread.

"They ate some fruit from a black nightshade - they look very much like blueberries. The symptoms include: Delirium, fever, hallucinations, headache, loss of sensation and in some cases, slowed breathing and paralysis - which is what took place in that tent. Then someone cut a hole in the tent and finished them off by pumping carbon monoxide, most logically from a car, into the tent. Tents aren't airtight, so if they hadn't been drugged and just mealy unconscious, they might have had a chance of surviving."

"So you're saying someone just finished them off?"

"I didn't realise it at first, but then… chloroform is naturally produced from marine algae and brown seaweed. This makes it have similar properties to other plant based poisons. The dilated pupils were caused by the toxins from the black nightshade, not chloroform… the leaves were near the metal pot… I just _didn't think_ …"

"That still doesn't explain how someone would know that the couple ate the plant and why they then wanted to finish the job."

Jolene came in before Sherlock could reply. John quickly covered up the report with his newspaper and sipped at his tea inconspicuously. "We don't want to worry anyone," he whispered to Sherlock.

"How are my boys today?" she bustled pasted with rolled up sleeves and rosy cheeks with cracked mud on the bottom of her skirt. "Bit chilly this morning isn't it – just feeding the hens. You found something?"

"Not particularly," John smiled,

"They were walkers from Yorkshire, quite young and they had just got engaged." Sherlock commented, pursing his lips.

"Oh that's a dear shame. I feel so terrible for the families, tragic love... You do get a lot of walkers around here. Some of them use Gunnislake as a base and then they walk to the nature reserves. It's an awful trek, you have to be serious walkers with a fierce love of wildlife to do it."

"So there's a lot of wildlife that would attract them?"

"Yes, they go an' see the Glossy Ibis,"

"Plegadis falcinellus," Sherlock mumbled.

Jolene continued, "A wading bird, likes to come here because of the wetlands and moors and they come back in the spring and summer to breed. Also they like the rare Spoonbills. I've never really been a bird lover myself, but I could tell an Ibis if I saw one. Giant, they are; all black, like a ghoul of the sky."

"So…" John asked, "where are these nature reserves?"

"North, there is Quoditch Moor Nature Reserve near Ashwater and in the west lies Helman Tor Nature Reserve but it would take a few days to walk there in my opinion," She smiled and folded up a tea towel. "I hope it helps."

"Yes – thank you, we're trying to see if there's a link with the couple,"

Sherlock sat silently, thinking, his hands rested in their 'steeple pose' as he wondered about Mary. If there was anything… that he could do… anything to bring John back to him – would he kill for it?

His thoughts were broken by a sharp knock on the door. Jolene went to answer it, only to call for 'the boys'.

A policeman stood in the doorway, his cap tucked under his arm and cocked his head slightly to the side when he went to shake hands with the detective and the doctor.

"I can't stay long – errands and things need sorting out at the station," PC Richardson smiled, "But I've been called to send you on your way to Sunny Pooh Caravan Site, there's been another death, two women, when you get there my colleague, Flinn, will show you around. I hope you find out what's happening to these poor people. Half of Cornwall's income depends on tourists… we depend on you."

The officer said a short goodbye; Jolene just nodded anxiously from the doorway as he got back in his car.

"Another one? So soon?" John raised his eyebrows and went to put on his shoes.

"It's not like it hasn't happened before," Sherlock pulled on his coat.

"Do you mind if we borrow your car Jolene?"

"Not at all. Oh that reminds me!" Jolene exclaimed, "I won't be a minute," she went out after PC Richardson just as the engine started.

"You know where the campsite is?" Sherlock looked on his phone.

"No? Not far is it?"

"Ashwater,"


	9. The Fake Smell of Love

"Is he… treating you well?" Mycroft leaned on the bureau that Greg had requested. Greg had not eating for the best part of three days, and his eyes left hollows in his face that had the foetus of a scrawny beard plastered to it. Lestrade looked up at his once lover and stared coldly into Mycroft's eyes. It killed him; he could see the bright intelligent eyes that once had leaned over him as their owners went in for the kiss. His eyes so bright with beauty, that his own soon blurred as he stared into the pits that masked themselves with glass blinkers, concealing their true motives.

Greg let the tear fall down his cheek, not blinking, for that would show weakness, instead the Mycroft standing before him faded into the watery blur that stood as an act of defiance.

"Look, I can't help you if you don't speak to me. This is only temporary," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "it's the only way I can keep you safe,"

The tension in Greg's chest tightened and the muscles on his arms seemed to blaze with anger. But he would not give Mycroft the satisfaction of his speech, of his attention. He breathed heavily, his shoulders bent with disgust.

"If there is anything you need…" the traitor trailed off when he finally worked out that he wasn't getting a response, and sighed. "I do love you, you know. I am doing this out of love. My love for _you_ ,"

And with that, Mycroft closed the door leaving him in a white washed room, a shabby queen sized bed with his hair and Bauru. He pulled up the chair and unlocked the desk; inside there was some writing paper and an assortment of pens. He looked blankly at the paper for some time and wondered if it was like this for the gentry as they were held in the tower of London awaiting their fates, all those years ago.

When Greg's blind fold had been taken off, the face of a young man in his early twenties had stared back at him. He had blond hair that was long and scraped back in a ponytail. "Pанок красиво. Morning beautiful," he had said, and inspected the cuts on Greg with gentle fingers and the fake smell of love.

Greg hadn't said anything, but the boy continued to talk light-heartedly as if nothing was amiss. He had helped Lestrade get back into some new clothes that seemed to lose, and had asked if Greg had needed anything. When the prisoner didn't reply, he talked about a writing desk to help him pass time, the moment the boy had mentioned it Greg's eyes had pricked up. The boy had smiled, put a hand on this shoulder, looked him in the eye and promised to find him a beau that was so detailed and antique, the pattern's would amuse him for hours and he could see the etches of past secrets and loves in the dark wood.

So, now Gregory Lestrade sat at the desk looking at the lined paper before him only tears inking the pages.

"Hey," The blonde boy had returned. He winced slightly as he bent down to the covers of the bed that were piled on the floor. "You need some inspiration?" he smiled.

"What is inspiring about this place?"

"We'll you could… write about your life?"

"My life is over and now I'm writing my memoirs?! I was hoping to at least die in the arms of someone I love. I cannot write about my life if I no longer know what's true and what's lie."

The lad looked over at the man sadly and placed the rest of the sheets at the foot of the bed and crouched down next to the broken man.

"Do you want me to… make you feel better?"

"Excuse-,"

"With my mouth or-,"

"-No, no! That's not necessary. Why would you even think of suggesting that?"

"I don't know, I just-"

"I am not a sex maniac! I don't need false love," he looked the boy in the eye and saw his honest face, full of sympathy and a kindness only found in people once in a blue moon.

"The boss said to make you feel better… it's is the only way I know how."

Greg scoffed, "it's funny how someone as… someone like… you would end up here,"

"Gregory, people have a choice to be happy, even when the circumstances are dull and grey. That is only how I stop myself from crying myself to sleep and wishing death takes me from this cruel world."


End file.
